Last Letters
by GalaxieGurl
Summary: A man tries to set things right before he goes. Booth is mentioned indirectly.


Last Letters

The chaplain patted the thin, prematurely-aged patient on his bony shoulder, rose from the bed-side chair and replaced it squared against the wall. Everything in the veterans' health center echoed the military discipline of its ailing residents' past lives.

"I'll see you next week, Ed, unless you need me sooner," he said quietly.

The man in the narrow bed swiped his eyes with the back of his gnarled hand, and gave a brief salute in return.

"Thanks, Padre," he responded. "I've got a lot of making up to do, and not a lot of time left. Wish I'd quit the bottle years ago. My life woulda been better, and so would my kids'. I really did them wrong; an' my wife too."

"The only way is forward, Ed. You can't change the past. Do what you can to make amends and leave the rest up to the good Lord. Booze didn't help, but neither did the PTSD from 'Nam. You fellas didn't get the help these young guys have available now. That's not an excuse, but you've got to play the hand you're dealt at this point. Can't go back, no point in spilt milk, and all that, as you know."

"I think writing those letters will help them and you. Your father, your sons, your wife, if you can find them, will benefit from reading them. If not, you'll benefit from writing them. Sounds like your old man helped your kids a lot; maybe he can help them again. Likely knows how to get a note to those boys. It might not seem like much of a gesture, but I daresay he'll appreciate your efforts. Parents are like the Lord, almost always willing to forgive their children, no matter the age or stage of life, or misdeeds."

"Sure hope so, Father. My dad was the reason my sons are even alive today. I know my eldest wouldn' even give any letter from me a glance; he'd rip it in two and chuck it in the trash. Wouldn' blame him either. I walloped and beat that poor kid…."

"Ed, you've got to forgive yourself a little. I'm not dismissing what you did in the past; some serious stuff, but you can't set things right if you don't try to move forward."

"I don't have much 'forward' left," the man replied. Sand in the hourglass is pretty well used up." The sound he made was somewhere between a sob and a smirk, which the chaplain understood only too well.

"Chin up, soldier… do the best you can with what you've got. I need to see Frank down the hall now, Ed. Take it easy, give it some thought, write when you feel like it; if you feel moved to do so, and let God do the rest. Prodigals are His specialty, you know."

"Yeah, yeah….Thanks for tryin', Father. One thing for sure, you never give up, do ya?"

"Nope, never, Ed, not once."

oooooooooooo

Edwin Booth watched the chaplain as he walked down the hall, then punched his pillow into what he hoped was a more comfortable mound. Pressing a button to elevate the mattress, he rolled his shoulders, grimaced as his neck popped, and sank back into the bed. He reached for the black ballpoint pen marked "Be all that you can be" on one side, and "An Army of One" on the other, and a yellow lined pad of paper. He pulled the rolling table closer and propped his knees against it. Chewing on the pen, he sighed deeply and began to write. "Dear Dad,"

An hour and four pages later, he scrawled his signature, tore off the sheets, and folded them in thirds. He'd have to ask the nurse for a few envelopes. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a groan, he pulled open a drawer in the bedside cabinet and extracted a wooden cigar box. His fingernail lifted the small brass clasp as he lifted the lid, staring at the "Purple Heart" medal case and the faded photographs beneath it.

Sliding the pictures out, he fingered a polaroid snapshot of himself with a dark-haired toddler on his lap, and growled to himself.

"Wish I could talk ta Seeley, for all the good it'd do," he muttered. "Jared might listen, but not Seels."

He studied another photo. This one showed a smiling young woman, holding an overall-clad toddler in her arms, an older child at her side. The boy bore such a striking resemblance to his father, it was like looking in a time-frozen mirror.

"Poor Marianne. She shouldn' have left without takin' the boys with her, though I can't blame her. I gave her PTSD all by my sorry self." He scrubbed his hand through his gray hair, cut short and mostly gone, and rubbed his seeping eyes with regret.

Setting the box on the bed, he took the pad of paper and began writing again, this time to his younger son. A briefer note, urging him to drop the bottle and not follow his old man's downward alcoholic spiral. It took him a long time to complete a letter to his former wife, and the page was wrinkled and smudged by the time he signed it.

As he folded it, the metallic rumble of a cart sounded in the hallway. A VA volunteer peeked in the door, and gave him a small tentative smile. No wonder, he'd grumbled at the lady most times she'd tried.

"Mr. Booth, would you like some lemonade, or a granola bar to hold you til dinner?"

"Yeah, please, Mrs. Mullins. And could you possibly scare up a few envelopes for me?"

Pleasantly surprised by Edwin's improved demeanor, the volunteer smiled broadly and reached under her cart to open a drawer.

"Here you go, I've got four of them with me," she told him. "Sure you only need three?"

Edwin coughed, covered his mouth, and frowned slightly. "Yeah, that's all the family I've got that'll listen to me anymore….read what I've wrote; well, you know…." he trailed off.

"Yes, of course, I'm sure they'll be happy to hear from you, Ed," Mrs. Mullins replied softly. "I certainly was, when I heard from my Harvey,"

She gave Edwin a sad look. "It's a long story….but I've got to get this lemonade passed around before all the ice melts…"

"Thanks, Mrs. Mullins. And goodbye."

"Oh, I'll see you next week…."

"Maybe," Edwin responded.


End file.
